


The Ruin of Draco Malfoy

by straylights



Category: Grey Eyes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straylights/pseuds/straylights
Summary: Hi! I really got this from K.J Charles' Ruin of Gabriel Ashleigh, and I intended to expand it as my own universe.Have fun reading
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**LONDON, AUTUMN 1818**

On the morning of his destruction, Lord Draco Malfoy woke up with Satan’s own head.

He lay in bed, eyes shut as he swam dizzily into consciousness, trying to control his rebellious stomach. It roiled with nausea from the wine, the brandy, the gin, and then, as waking crept over him, from the terrible cold-sweat memory of what he had done last night.

Surely he hadn’t….It was a dream. It had to be a dream. Please let it be a dream.

It wasn’t a dream. Vomit rose in his throat.

What have I done, what have I done?

He was ruined. It was as simple as that. He had wagered everything at the gaming tables and lost it all, had left himself only the choice between fleeing to the Continent or ending it here, now, alone in this room, with a pistol.

The devil fly away with that. Draco was ashamed, and angry, and despairing, but he was also just twenty-six years old. He didn’t, despite the throbbing pain spearing his eyeballs, want to die.

No, he would leave the country. Take passage to France, find a place among the other men that England had broken, and live with the disgrace. It would be better than the alternative.

But to have ruined himself in a single night. To shame his sisters—Pansy’s engagement would soon be announced. If he made a bolt for it, what would that do to her? Her intended was the Marquess of Buckstead’s eldest son, and that family was as high in the instep as his own. Surely the Malfoy blood would count for more than the peccadilloes of one black sheep?

He could go to his father, he supposed, but the thought was chilling. The Duke of Wiltshire was not a kindly man. His limited affections were mostly reserved for his eldest heir, leaving very little for the other children and none at all for Draco, whom he openly despised. It was the duke’s will that his unsatisfactory youngest son join the army and remove himself from the family, and without Great-Aunt Andromeda’s legacy to make him independent, Draco would have had no choice but to obey.

Aunt Andromeda’s legacy, which he had gambled away last night. His home, his comfortable life, his freedom from his father. Everything staked on the turn of a card, and lost.

His father would probably buy him a commission, if only to prevent Draco’s joining up as a private, but Draco knew that was the most he could expect from that quarter, and God help him, he didn’t want to join the army. No soldier, he: Draco was a wastrel, a rattle, and a damned fool to boot.

He attempted to sit up. That was a mistake. It took a moment of carefully shallow breathing to control his stomach as his brain bumped gently against the inside of his skull. He slackened his muscles again and lay back on the bed, grappling with his predicament.

Might Theo intervene on his behalf? Was that a chance? Unlike their father, Theo enjoyed the tables. He would understand how Draco had come to this pass. But he would not understand, would never understand, why his brother had chosen to play against Harry Potter.

Maybe he could be made to see it as an act of loyalty instead of defiance. Draco rehearsed the arguments: The fellow was insolent. I could not let him win. I staked everything rather than accept defeat.

I lost anyway. That was the sticking point. Theo disliked being on the losing side.

Still, it was worth a try, although at best he would be sent back to Wiltshire Hall, deep in the country, for months or years under his father’s joyless, watchful eye. Death might be preferable.

—

Any hope of Theo’s support wisped away like smoke when his brother thundered up the stairs at the ungodly hour of noon.

“God damn you, Draco!” Mal’s voice was never pleasant, but to a man with a head like Draco’s, it was downright grating. “You gull, you sapskull, you addle-pated fool. I hope you don’t expect me to help you. You brought this upon yourself, mixing with that wretch Potter….”

Draco shut his eyes. He had managed to get out of bed and to consume some of a plate of ham and eggs, but he was still in his dressing gown. It was silk damask, most gorgeously embroidered, and had given him great pleasure at its purchase. His pride in it withered under his brother’s contemptuous gaze.

Contemptuous gazes seemed to be his lot in life, Draco reflected as Theo bellowed on. That was what he remembered about last night. Well, no, he remembered the clouds of smoke, the brandy glass by his elbow, constantly refilled. He remembered, as though it had happened to someone else, the strange passion that had gripped him to wager and wager again, disregarding Freddy’s urgent representations, and the dizzying panic once he understood what he had done, which had led him to consume much of a bottle of Stark Naked. But most clearly of all, he remembered the steady, scornful regard of a pair of hazel-green eyes opposite him, their gaze spurring him to defy the cards and Fate itself rather than walk away, and that memory made him sweat as much as the gin that oozed its way from his skin.

“Spider Potter!” Theo shouted, seemingly noticing that he’d lost Draco’s attention. “Spinning Jenny! That scoundrel! And you lost Slytherin House to him! Our family’s property!”

That was Theo’s true objection, Draco reflected, observing his brother’s bulging eyes. He had been furious not to be named Great-Aunt Andromeda’s heir, although he had paid her the least possible lip service, considering her an embarrassing relic of bygone days. Aunt Andromeda had sported the ludicrous fashions and blunt manners of her youth well into her eighties, and had lavished on Draco all the affection the rest of his family never showed, or felt. Draco had loved the outrageous old woman dearly. He missed her now.

But Theo was the eldest; everything came to him by right. Despite having a very neat property of his own, and the Wiltshire estate awaiting him when their father turned up his toes, he had wanted Slytherin House too. And he did not wish it to be owned by Harry Potter.

Theo l went away eventually, after telling Draco to go to the devil, recommending that he take himself there forthwith, and assuring him that their father would feel the same. It was no more than Draco had expected, really.

He had been staring out the window, wondering what to do, when the note came.

—

Draco looked again at the paper in his hand.

_Mr. Harry Potter begs to request Lord Draco Abraxas Malfoy’s company at nine o’clock._

It wanted a few moments to nine now, and here he was outside Potter’s home, a town house on Bourdon Street. Elegant, well located, but off the bustle of Grosvenor Street. Just a little set back, a little reserved.

Draco had made himself respectable, sweating out the gin with a few bouts at Cribb’s and in a Turkish bath. He wouldn’t want Potter to believe he was always bosky. In truth, he had kept his potations within reasonable limits over the last couple of years in the hope of shedding his reputation as one who dipped too deep.

Except for last night, of course. Although it hadn’t been the brandy that had made him behave so brattishly. It had been that enraging cold stare.

It was absurd, how he’d reacted. Potter was cold, everyone knew that. Unfriendly to his intimates, icy to strangers, never standing up to dance at balls. A chilly, bloodless, callous fellow who had Draco’s ruin in the palm of his hand.

Ruin, or salvation, perhaps. If he chose to give Draco time, there might be a way to salvage the wreck. Though Draco couldn’t imagine why he would. Draco was Lord Theodore’s brother, and Potter would not have any kindness for him at all.

It had started at Eton, when Potter and Theo had been put in the same house. The young Lord Theodore was scion of the ancient Malfoy family, heir to the venerable Wiltshire dukedom, one of the better-born men in England, and certainly one of the most puffed up about it. Always conscious of his own superiority, Theo had felt instant contempt for Potter, a gangling, bookish youth, and the contempt had sharpened into profound dislike when he’d learned that the fellow was the worst sort of commoner. Harry Potter, attending a school for the sons of gentlemen and thrust into Lord Theodores’s company every day, was nothing more than a son of trade, his father’s wealth coming from some weaver in the Midlands who’d invented a new kind of loom. Theo had been enraged and offended by his forced association with such a fellow and had not missed any opportunity to make him learn his place.

They’d dubbed the weaver’s brat Spinning Jenny, of course. Theo had told his younger siblings that frequently, and they’d laughed every time. Spinning Jenny, Web Spinner, Spider Webs, Money Spider, and a hundred other variations besides. The insults had been relentless, the ostracism general, and the kicks and punches would have hurt.

Draco had not been involved in the matter. He was six years younger than Theo and Potter, and the affairs of older boys were not his business. Of course, he’d been on Theo’s side, because Theo was his brother and Potter was a dashed commoner, but in truth he’d felt sorry for the fellow. For all Theo’s pride, he had cursed little idea of fair play. Draco had felt his fist and boot, and earned the rough side of his tongue, quite often enough to be grateful that someone else was Theo’s target.

No, there was no great reason that Potter should feel affectionate toward a Malfoy.

The chime of nine began, resounding from nearby clocks and churches. Draco swallowed hard against the nervous constriction in his throat. He had dressed well in the hope it would give him confidence, and because Potter was noted for his style, choosing attire that was the plainest possible but cut to perfection. The natural curl to Draco’s fair blond hair meant that he could achieve the Brutus fashion of artfully tousled waves without resorting to bear grease. His coat, made by Ms Malkins, was a masterpiece of tailoring; his linen was spotless, his cravat tied in an unassuming, neat Mathematical, and his superfine breeches, nicely judged for an informal evening, were so tight as to make the best of what he knew, modesty apart, to be excellent legs.

He might be facing ruin, disgrace, his family’s fury, or worse, but whatever Potter might mean to do with him, Draco intended to appear a gentleman, and to take whatever he doled out as a gentleman should.


	2. Harry James Potter

He knocked at the door. An impassive footman led him into a generously sized room, something between a dining room and a drawing room. There was a mahogany table, its bare wood gleaming, sized for no more than eight; a card table with two chairs; a couch. Wax candles blazed in two candelabra, lighting the card table but little else. The rugs on the floor were of a vaguely Oriental look to Draco’s uninformed eye, and oddly, more rugs, or at least some sort of cloth, hung on the walls in place of pictures. The one opposite him now was woven stuff of some kind bearing a pattern that he didn’t trouble to make out because Harry Potter’s elongated, spindly shadow stretched across it, blackening its brightness.

Potter stood in the middle of the room, behind the card table. Impeccable Hessians, gleaming black. Buckskin breeches on those long legs. Coat of superb cut, flattering his tall, lean build. Mathematical tie, just as Draco sported, but in truth rather better arranged. Straight mid-brown hair brushed back in that severe style that accentuated the narrowness of the man’s face. Dark, emerald eyes, unblinking, on Draco.

“Good evening,” Draco managed as the door shut behind him.

“Good evening, Lord Malfoy.” Potter’s voice was cool. He didn’t invite Draco to sit.

“You, ah, you requested my company.”

Potter’s eyes were on him, assessing. Draco tried not to shift nervously. He wasn’t sure what there was in the way Potter was looking at him, but he didn’t like it.

“Mmm.” Potter moved to the dining table and took up a little pile of papers. “You played rather deep last night.”

“Yes.”

“You wagered”—he flipped through the scrawled notes—“some thirty thousand pounds, and your property, Slytherin House.” His voice was without inflection, devoid of concern. He might have betrayed more passion discussing what boot-blacking recipe his valet preferred. “Do you normally wager so extravagantly, Lord Malfoy?”

Potter’s cool tone seemed to linger on that absurd name of his. “My friends call me Abraxas.”

“I have no interest in being your friend.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open. If the fellow expected him to swallow that tamely—

“I’m not aware that you possess unlimited resources,” Potter went on, apparently oblivious to Draco’s indignation. “You’re at a stand, aren’t you?”

“I’m at point non plus,” Draco said bluntly. A waste of time to prettify it now. “I’ll have to sell out of the Funds to make good. If you will give me time—”

“No. I shan’t give you time. But I shall give you a chance.” Potter moved away, a long step backward and another to the side, and pulled out the chair opposite Draco, on the other side of the card table. “Will you play?”

Draco stared at him. “Are you jesting?”

“Hardly.”

“But—” Why in God’s name would Potter want to play him again? “I don’t understand.”

“There is nothing to misunderstand. If you wish to regain your property…” Potter picked up a pack of cards, split them, riffled the pasteboard through his slim fingers. “You are no better than a flat at piquet. Écarté?”

Draco was, he knew, terrible at piquet, whereas Potter was notoriously good. How he had believed he could play the man at it last night, he couldn’t imagine. “I do prefer écarté, but I’ve nothing to wager.” Potter raised a brow. Draco felt himself flush. “You can see for yourself.” He indicated the heap of papers. “I’ve not left myself a feather to fly with.”

“Your father is very well fledged,” Potter observed.

“He wouldn’t pay my gambling debts, and I shouldn’t dream of asking him to. It’s my own fault.”

Potter’s emerald eyes narrowed slightly. “Good heavens, Lord Draco. I had thought the Wiltshire upbringing did not include such expressions.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Expressions of responsibility or of regret,” Potter said with chilly precision. “I have not been familiar with those from members of your family.”

And there it was. Sweat sprang to his skin under the constricting cloth around Draco’s neck. Of course Potter held a grudge. Why wouldn’t he?

—

The older boys had left Eton long before Draco, and without Theo’s abrasive presence, he found he rather enjoyed the place. Time and the tide of education swept him to Oxford, where he discovered wine, cards, and, furtively, the pleasures of the flesh. Then he had moved into society, a callow lout of twenty-one, and that was when he’d met Harry Potter again.

It had been in Hog’s Head’s, a club in St. James’s, and Draco had been on the mop, of course. He’d been foxed six days out of seven then. Arm round his friend Blaise’s shoulders to stay upright, hopelessly disguised, he’d stumbled into the room and come face to face with a man.

He was tall, a good four inches above Draco’s own medium height, with a narrow, assessing face and emerald-green eyes that locked onto Draco’s own with an intensity that forced Draco to look away. And as he’d dropped his eyes, he’d registered the long limbs.

Potter wasn’t spindly anymore. The ludicrous lankiness of the adolescent was all gone in the grown man, replaced by a lean, rangy build deliberately accentuated rather than concealed by his extremely well-cut coat. But his long arms had triggered Draco’s memory, and there, in the middle of one of London’s most exclusive gaming hells, face to face with the fellow, he’d blurted out, “By Jove, it’s Spinning Jenny!”

And it had gone from bad to worse. He’d drunkenly tried to reminisce—why, why?—about Draco’s various nicknames, insults, as if they were a shared joke. His friends, as foxed as he, had roared with laughter. Potter had stared him down, expression icing over, until Draco had belatedly noticed that nobody else in the room was laughing, and finally stumbled to a stop. Potter had waited for silence, let it grow to an unbearable pitch, and spoken only when every man in the place was listening with undisguised interest.

“If I wished to hear the squalling of toothless brats,” he had said with chilly calm, “I should pay a call on my sister’s nursery. I commend it to you for a visit, Lord Malfoy. You would feel quite at home.”

And then he had turned on his heel and walked away.

—

Potter was watching him still, and Draco was sure he was thinking of that night. He shifted uncomfortably.

Thep had made the fellow’s life hell at school, and Draco knew damned well he felt no regret, and that even if he did it would go unexpressed. If Theo had ever admitted himself at fault, Draco hadn’t heard it, any more than he’d ever heard their father offer an apology to anyone. Draco had been raised with the knowledge that the pair were infallible, that merely expressing disagreement placed him in the wrong.

He didn’t much like it, and he didn’t suppose Potter did either.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

Potter’s brows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

Draco cursed himself. He hadn’t intended to say that. In this situation, and years too late, it smacked of toad-eating at best. But he had been in the wrong, there was no denying it, and it needed to be said.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “That night in Hog’s Head’s. The fact is, I was badly foxed, and I had no intention of being so cursed rude, and I wish I’d held my tongue. I should have said so long before.”

Potter’s eyes were fixed on his face, unreadable in the candlelight. His mouth looked a little tense. “I see,” he said. “Are you under the impression that I am holding a grudge, Lord Abraxas Malfoy, or that I can be blandished into giving you an easier ride?”

“I’ve no idea what you think,” Draco retorted. “And I’m well aware you hold the whip hand here. I was in the wrong and I owe you an apology, and you have it. That’s all.”

Potter’s expression didn’t change. He was still a moment more, then said again, “Will you play?”

“I told you, I’ve nothing to stake.”

“Have you a shilling?”

Draco took a deep breath. But, after all, he had nothing more to lose.

“A shilling. Against which you stake what, Slytherin House?”

“Hardly.” Potter seated himself with a flick of his coat’s tails and picked up the pack to deal. “But let us say ten pounds, for now.”

It was quite the new thing, écarté, a fast-moving game played with a limited pack, much simpler than piquet and more dependent on chance after the initial exchanges of cards that allowed both men to improve their hands. Draco doubted that Potter considered it a serious game, but his face was keen and intent in the candlelight.

“Spades are trumps.”

“I propose an exchange.”

“How many?”

“Four.” Draco discarded four cards, took his replacements, and was rewarded with the king of spades and two knaves. Potter exchanged three.

“I stand pat,” Draco said, declining the opportunity for another round of exchanges. If he couldn’t win with this hand, he was in trouble. “I declare king of trumps. Play.”

He did win, taking four tricks to make two points. Potter seemed indifferent.

Though he played a lot because everyone did, Draco wasn’t one of nature’s gamesters, preferring games of pure chance to those involving skill. He found the tension of piquet sickening rather than exciting, and disliked the silences. He couldn’t keep track of what had been played with any great accuracy, certainly not after the first few hands, and had no sense for what cards were likely to come up.

More than that, though, he was easily distracted. Just now, he should have been concentrating on the pasteboard rectangles, but as Potter swept them up to shuffle, he found himself looking at the man’s hands instead. Long-fingered, pale, smooth, and well-kept except for the left thumbnail. That was very short and a little jagged, as though someone had attempted an improvement by worrying it with his teeth.

Potter didn’t look as though he bit his nails. His expression was calm, even bland. He was not a handsome man by most standards, with his narrow face, thin lips, and slanted, saturnine eyebrows. Some people said he looked sly. Draco thought shrewd said it better. It was an intelligent face, a formidable one. Draco wondered what it would be like to be the full focus of Harry Potter’s attentions. The thought made him shift uncomfortably.

Draco dealt, which meant Potter could choose to exchange. “I propose. Two.”

The dealer had to accept the first exchange, which was tiresome, because he had an excellent hand. “One.”

“I propose two.”

“I refuse.”

The game went on. Draco won a few points, lost more. Potter’s hands moved with a slightly unnerving smoothness on the shuffle. He poured brandy, and Draco drank it and wagered recklessly, without thought. There was no prospect that he could win against a gamester of Potter’s skill. He was lost and this was merely delaying the inevitable.

It was all his own fault, of course, like so much else. He’d deserved Potter’s enmity, and last night he’d paid the price.

—

There had been a number of sequels to the incident at Hog’s Head’s. Draco had discovered that Potter was generally admired, if not liked, for his wealth, his cool reserve, and his skill at the card tables. More than that, he was an intimate of the set headed by Lord Sirius Black, known as the Ricardians. This was an odd assortment of men of varied birth, wealth, and brain, including some rather queer fish, but they shared qualities of self-possession and a strong mutual loyalty that made them bad men to cross. And with Lord Sirius, Mr. Remus Lupin, and Sir Regulus among their number, few felt able to set themselves up in opposition. The Ricardians set their own fashions and chose their friends with little care for the world’s opinion, and the world made way for them. Theo remarked on them occasionally with disapproval, even resentment, and now Draco learned why. Harry Potter was a Ricardian, but Lord Theodores, heir to the Duke of Wiltshire, his name passport to any other society, was not. Nor, of course, was Draco.

He had been advised that he was no longer welcome at Hog’s Head’s. Other hells were also closed to him, and some men sheered off, avoiding him when the news spread that he had set himself up in enmity to the Ricardians. Draco couldn’t blame them. It was the last thing he’d have chosen to do if he wasn’t such a blasted fool. Gallingly, Potter’s words at Hog’s Head’s had stuck. Draco had been known as the Toothless Brat for years, a soubriquet that was only just beginning to wear off.

And he hadn’t made his apology. He’d wanted to, desperately; he had been bitterly ashamed of himself by the time he woke the next morning—insulting a man to his face for no reason, good God. But the next few times he’d encountered Potter, he’d received only a blank look that left him tongue-tied and squirming inside. So he’d told himself that the miserable fellow had doubtless deserved it, accepted Theo’s clap on the back, and set himself to confront the man when he could. A challenging stare, a few encounters at the gaming tables in which Potter would invariably take his money and excuse himself early. Draco hadn’t wanted to fight—he wasn’t a fighting man—but there was something in the way Potter looked at him or, worse, the way he ignored him that made him grit his teeth. He resented being ignored by Harry Potter.

It had come to a head last night.

It had been at Hog’s Head’s, again, to which Draco had been readmitted at last. He had stood chatting with a friend—perhaps a little distracting to the players, but curse it, it was a social club as well—and Potter had lifted his dark head and given Draco a long look that had made him flush from hair to toes. A hard, assessing, invasive sort of a look—insolent, that was what it was, Draco had told himself, and for all his faults, for all his shames and peccadilloes and his secret sins, he was the third son of the Duke of Wiltshire. He would not allow a weaver’s spawn to bring him to the blush. No longer able to tolerate the man, he’d drawn himself up to his full, though not magnificent height, marched over to the table, demanded to play—

And lost, and lost, and lost.


	3. The Wager

“Five points,” Potter said, sitting back. He swept the cards off the table, glanced at the litter of notes to one side, and raised a brow.

“I’m out,” Draco said. It scarcely mattered. He’d come with nothing, he’d leave with nothing. That had doubtless been Potter’s intention; he couldn’t imagine what else it might be. “I’ve nothing to wager.”

“I’ll accept your note of hand.”

Draco had no intention of adding to the mountain of his debt. “I couldn’t pay. I told you. You’ve had everything but the coat off my back.”

“True.” Potter contemplated him. “A hundred pounds against your coat.”

“What?”

“It’s so often said, ‘the coat off a man’s back,’ yet I’ve never played for such a thing. One should be open to new experience.” Potter’s thin lips curved. “On the first trick.”

Apparently, he meant it. Draco swallowed. “Very well.”

He dealt, giving himself a worthless hand. Potter proposed an exchange. Draco accepted, exchanged four cards, and found himself with nothing more than knaves. If only Potter would exchange again….

“I stand.”

Draco held back a curse. He couldn’t exchange if Potter didn’t, and this was not a promising hand.

And he did not win. Potter took the trick, contemplated the cards, and looked up at Ash. One of them, Draco wasn’t sure who, breathed out hard enough to send the candle flame jumping, making shadows flicker over Potter’s eyes, darkening their hazel-green.

“Your coat,” Potter said softly.

Draco stood, movements a little jerky, feeling the cloth tight around his shoulders. “You’ll have to help me.”

Potter moved round behind him. Draco felt breath whisper over his neck, raising hairs. Potter’s hands came onto his shoulders, very softly, closing over the cloth, gently tugging it away from Draco’s body, sliding the tight material down his arms. Draco stood, not moving, as he would with his valet, feeling a touch of chill as the warm cloth was removed so that he stood in his shirt, with Potter behind him.

Potter’s finger brushed Draco’s, and he jolted, but the man was merely bringing the sleeves over his hands. Draco calmed his breathing. His heart seemed to be pounding a little too fast.

“Another hand,” Potter said softly, dropping the coat over the back of a chair.

“What do you propose to play for now? My shirt?”

“If you choose.”

Draco almost laughed. “What do you stake?”

“A thousand.”

Draco’s breath caught, an audible little gasp. He didn’t have a good hand, but it was surely worth the risk. “You must want my shirt very much.”

Potter moved back to his side of the card table. “It’s a fine weave,” he said with dry amusement, but his eyes looked very dark in the candlelight.

“Very well,” Draco said. “On the next trick?”

Potter inclined his head.

He led. Draco lost.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Potter didn’t speak either, simply watching, and it dawned on Draco with incredulity and a terrible anticipation that the man was waiting for him to take it off.

He stood. Loosened his cravat, stripped off his waistcoat. Tugged the shirt tails free with hands that shook a little. Watched Potter watching him.

He lifted the linen off his shoulders, over his head, knowing that as he did, as his face caught against the soft cloth, his torso was exposed to Potter’s scrutiny. He pulled the shirt off and stood in the candlelight, bare-chested, waiting.

Potter didn’t make a move to take the shirt from him. He was looking at Draco, and not at his face either. His lips were slightly parted. Draco could hear him breathing. The narrow gaze that lingered on Draco’s waistband was as intimate as a finger drawn along his skin. He was painfully conscious of the blond curls that ran down his abdomen, inviting Potter’s gaze to follow them lower.

“What now?” Draco asked, dry-mouthed.

“Another wager. The next trick.”

“What will you stake?”

Potter swept up the sheaf of papers—scrawled promises to pay, banknotes—and shoved the lot into the middle of the table. “Everything.”

“I…” The constriction in Draco’s throat was as bad as the constriction of his damnably, impossibly tight breeches. “And what will you have me stake?”

“Yourself.” Potter’s voice rasped, as if he had to force the word out. “You, over the table. Legs spread. Crying my name.”

Draco’s fingers tightened in the shirt, bunching the linen in front of his groin. This was unconscionable. Anyone would call the man out. He would surely expect an angry response.

Had Potter heard whispers about him? Could this be a test, a way for Potter to ruin him more thoroughly than money ever could? But no, too dangerous: Draco could accuse him in return, tell people about that outrageous wager, and his word was as good as Potter’s.

And he knew damned well it wasn’t a test. There was nothing false in the hungry eyes that watched him. The thought made the blood pulse painfully in his loins.

“A new deal.” The words came unbidden. “I’m not betting my house on that hand.” Or his arse, either. He didn’t say that, but the curve of Potter’s lips showed he hadn’t had to.

Potter picked up the cards. “Sit, then. And put my shirt down.”

Draco hesitated, but it was too late for modesty. He dropped the shirt over the chair to join the coat. Without the concealing linen in front of him, his prick seemed to strain twice as hard against the cloth, thrusting out at his opponent.

Potter fumbled the shuffle. Cards burst from his fingers and hit the tabletop with a soft rattle.

They stared at each other. The blood was pounding in Draco’s ears, echoed by the steady throb in his cock.

Potter scraped the cards together, shuffled again without speaking. Draco moved forward, dreamlike, and seated himself with difficulty.

Potter dealt. “Clubs are trumps.”

“I propose an exchange. Three cards.”

“I accept. Exchange two.”

“I propose. Two.”

“I accept. One.”

“I propose three.”

“I refuse.”

Draco gripped his cards tightly. His highest card was the king of diamonds, but he had two other diamonds in his hand, including the queen, and had discarded two more. There were just three diamonds left and no guarantee one was among Potter’s five cards. If Potter held a diamond, he would have to follow suit and Draco would win it all back. But if Potter didn’t hold a diamond, if he had a void and a trump…

Draco didn’t look at the dining table, the one Potter wanted him bent over. It took an effort of will.

Should he lead the diamond, or the knave of spades? He’d discarded spades too; he couldn’t remember how many.

Potter was watching him with those hungry emerald eyes. He’d push Draco over the table, sprawling, helpless, and take him like that, without mercy, and Draco would cry his name, he knew he would, and he would be ruined, utterly ruined.

He played the king of diamonds.

The world stopped turning as Potter looked at the single card on the table.

Then, in a swift movement, the tall man threw his hand down, pushed his chair back, and stood. “Your trick.”

“What?”

“Your trick. You win. Congratulations.”

“You haven’t played,” Draco said blankly.

“I don’t need to put down a card to see it. Take your damned paper and get out. And your clothes, I don’t want them. Out.”

Bewildered, Draco stood too. “But—”

“For Christ’s sake! You’ve won, damn it. Or did you want to lose?” That was an open sneer. Potter’s face was set in an ugly, contemptuous expression. Draco felt himself flush. He reached out a hand for his shirt.

Then he lunged for Potter’s cards.

Draco took him by surprise, but Potter was fast enough. He snatched the hand up before Draco could seize it. Draco grabbed his wrist, twisting it across the table, sidestepping round until they were locked together, as if arm wrestling, glaring into each other’s faces.

“What the devil are you doing?”

“Show me your hand.”

“What do you mean by that?” Potter’s tone was full of icy anger.

Draco didn’t care. “If you had a lower diamond, you’d have played it. If you had no trumps to your hand, you’d have accepted my exchange.” He might not be a master at the card table, but he was absolutely certain of his logic. Potter’s face didn’t change at all, not a jot, from that unpleasant look. “You won. Didn’t you?”

“Are you accusing me of cheating?” The words were bitten out.

“Show me your cards.”

“Be damned to you.” Potter wrenched against his grip, a sudden movement, but though Draco was the shorter, he had more strength in his arms. He kept tight hold, his bare chest rising and falling, skin just brushing Potter’s coat. “Consider your words, sir, or face the consequences.”

“You’ll call me out for accusing you of generosity?” Draco did his best to raise a sardonic eyebrow. “I’ll tell you what. Give me your word as a gentleman that you lost that trick, and I shall accept it.”

Potter gritted his teeth. “I shan’t stoop to answering such an absurd allegation.”

Draco released him and stepped back. They stared at each other, breathing hard, then Potter swept up the cards from the table in a fluent move, losing the hand into the pack forever. “Take your winnings and go.”

Winnings. His home, his life, given back to him, his manhood uncompromised. He could walk away. He was safe.

“One more hand,” Draco said.

“Haven’t you had enough of gambling? You overestimate your skill. And your luck.”

“One more,” Draco repeated.

“And what stakes do you propose?”

“On my side?” Draco met his eyes. “As before.”

Potter’s mouth opened slightly.

“Me. Bent over that table. Crying your name.”

Potter’s body was quiveringly still, like a retriever poised for game. “And…what should I wager against such a stake?”

Draco paused, drawing it out for a deliberate second, then shrugged. “Do you have a shilling?”

Potter lunged. Draco stumbled back a pace, but he was built too solidly to be knocked off balance by a lanky fellow like that, and he took his weight on the back foot. Potter’s long hands closed around his skull, driving into his hair, and his mouth came down on Draco’s own, hard and fierce. Draco responded with equal savagery, with kisses that were almost bites. Potter’s tongue was in his mouth, his skin rasping against Draco’s, the taste of brandy on them both.

He pulled Draco closer, body to body, dragging Draco’s face upward to meet the kiss. Draco’s nipples rubbed against Potter’s linen and he ground his rigid erection against Potter’s thigh, eliciting a savage gasp.

“Christ.” Potter pulled his mouth away, his thin lips filled and reddened. “You.” He pushed Draco back, not hard, but Draco went willingly, until his arse was against the edge of the table, and Potter’s hands were at his buttons, fumbling, undoing the front fall of his breeches, attempting to push the cloth downward.

“Damnation. These things are tight.”

“Not usually this tight,” Draco pointed out. “Oh Jesus.” Potter’s hand was running over the linen of his drawers, over his swollen cock. “Oh God, please.”

“Just—God damn it.” Potter slid abruptly to his knees, tugging cloth with him. Draco’s erection sprang free, the tip glistening wet already, shining in the candlelight, and Potter leaned forward and took it in his mouth.

Draco made an entirely involuntary high-pitched noise.

Potter didn’t seem to notice that he’d squealed like a bashful maiden. His mouth was warm and very tight on Draco’s cock, lips gripping firmly, sliding over the head and clamping down on the shaft. Draco groaned, the sound wrung from him, and stared down at the movement of Potter’s head.

Harry Potter, impeccable, poised, dangerous Potter, with his supercilious sneers, on his knees and gamahuching Draco as though he was paying for it.

Draco spread his legs as far as he could and felt Potter sway forward, between his thighs. God alone knew what picture they would make, he in his boots and Potter fully clothed, sucking his cock, and oh God, he was going to spend.

“Stop.” He tugged at Potter’s hair. “Stop.”

Potter looked up, the grip of his lips relaxing, but Draco’s rigid prick still resting in his wet, open mouth, and Draco nearly climaxed there and then at the sight. He clenched his fingers on the edge of the tabletop. “My God. Potter.”

“Fuh—” Potter had to pull away from Draco’s prick to speak, letting it bob forlornly. “Harry.”

Crying my name. “Harry,” Draco repeated, as though he’d never heard the sounds before. “I propose an exchange.”

Potter—Harry—moved to stand, and Draco put out a hand, pulling him to his feet. “You’re dressed.”

“And so I’ll stay.” Draco’s gaze flew to his face, feeling a pulse of quick alarm, but Harry wore an odd expression, almost a smile. “To have you naked while I remain clothed is surprisingly…” He trailed off, as if searching for the word, then said softly, “It excites me.”

Christ, that was frank. Draco felt his cheeks redden, but this was scarcely a time to discover modesty. Instead, he hopped backward to sit on the smooth wood of the tabletop, and lifted a booted foot to Harry. “Then make me naked.”

Harry’s lips parted. He stood quite still for just a second, and Draco would have wondered if he’d insulted him if the man’s erection hadn’t been tenting his buckskins in a way that made Draco feel relieved to be unclothed. Then he knelt, very deliberately, sitting on his heels before Ash, and took hold of one of his Hessians.

“Oh.” Harry’s grip was tight, his fingers firm, his head bowed as if in service as he worked the smooth leather from Draco’s foot. He seemed intent on the task, so Draco used the toe of his other boot to nudge gently between Harry’s legs and heard his stuttering breath.

“Take my boots off,” he repeated, and saw Harry shudder. “And then bend me over this damned table and make good on your wager.”

Harry didn’t reply, simply concentrating on easing the boot off. He ran his hand over Draco’s stockinged foot, meditative, and then leaned forward, kneeling up, to rub his hard swell of cock deliberately against the sensitive sole while he pleasured Draco’s prick with his mouth once more.

Good God. Draco could never have his valet take his boots off again.

It was exquisite torture as Harry pulled away to remove the second boot. Draco waited for the release, waited for the slide of stockings and breeches off his legs, until he stood naked as a babe, fiercely erect, with Harry crouching at his feet, looking upward.

“We had a wager,” Draco reminded him.

Harry reached out and took Draco in hand for one long, slow, unbearable lick, spiraling his tongue along the rigid length, then stood. He put a hand on Draco’s shoulder and pulled, hard, turning him. Draco braced himself against the table and bent to the pressure of Harry’s shove. Harry pushed again, kicking his legs apart, and Draco was on his chest, face against the cold wood, legs splayed. Helpless. Indecent. Ready to be fucked.

“Christ, I’m going to spend,” he whispered.

“Not yet. Stay there.” Harry’s hands were on his buttocks, pulling them apart, running his thumbs between. He let go, stepping away, and was back a moment later, Draco hoped with oil, but did not look round. Harry ran his finger down Draco’s cleft again. “Oh, I shall have you now, Lord Malfoy I shall have this.”

“I said. My friends call me Abraxas.”

“And I told you that it wasn’t your friendship I desired.” Harry bent over him, thin body covering his, to curl his tongue over Draco’s earlobe. “What do your lovers call you?”

“I, uh…” Draco wasn’t sure what his own mother called him, with Harry’s rigid buckskin-covered cock pressing against his bare arse and that tongue sliding over and round and into his ear. “God.”

“I doubt that.” Harry moved to kiss Draco’s neck. “I shall call you Draco when I take you.” He ground his hips against Ash. His voice was low and rough. “Because you’re heavenly.”

It was hopelessly gauche, the kind of blandishment the clumsiest clodhopper might offer his sweetheart. Ludicrous for Draco to blush so fiercely at it. “You can call me the Duke of Wellington as long as you get your prick in me.” He wriggled back against Harry, heard the gasp.

“Be still.” Harry withdrew a little, then there was a finger pressing into Draco, slick with oil. “Do you like this?”

“Not as much as—oh fuck Jesus Christ fuck.” The bastard had slipped his finger right in, without hesitation, and hit there—

“Not as much as…?”

Draco wailed, rocking from side to side against the merciless internal pressure that spiked pleasure through him. “It’s not your finger I want.” Didn’t want preparing. Loved the feeling of a thick cock pushing him open. He wondered how big Harry was.

“Cocksure boy.” There was a tease in Harry’s voice, almost affectionate. He heard the rustle of clothing. “Draco.” Two long syllables. Draco disliked his absurd name intensely, but there was something in the way Harry drew out its sounds that made it chime like ancient bells. “What do you say?”

“Harry,” Draco managed. “Harry. Fuck me.”

“With the greatest pleasure.” Harry withdrew his finger in a swift movement that made Draco gasp. “Uh—in just a moment.”

“What?” Draco twisted round in outrage and saw Harry, eyes shut, gripping his erection at the base with an expression that betrayed extreme discomfort. “What the devil—?”

Harry opened one eye to glare at him. “I have waited five years for your arse. I have brought myself off more nights than I can count, imagining you splayed on my table like the wanton slut I knew you’d be. And if I touch you now I’m going to spend like a raw recruit with his first ladybird and I am damned if I’ll fail to give you the tupping you richly deserve.” He squeezed again, hard. “Now be silent and let me think about something else.”

A variety of responses jostled in Draco’s brain—offended dignity, arousal, an urgent need to hear more about how he looked—but he settled on the most important one. “Five years?”

“Ill-mannered, drunken brat,” Harry said softly. “With that glorious hair and those ridiculous eyes.”

“My eyes are not ridiculous.”

“They are. Nobody else has eyes like that. Silver-grey, it is.”

Harry knew the exact shade of his eyes. Draco felt an odd lurch in his chest.

“And you were always there.” Harry released himself and stepped forward. “Forcing your presence on your elders, uninvited. Insisting on gambling, when you are so very unsuited to the gaming tables. Demanding my attention.” He brushed his fingers lightly over Draco’s arse, then reached for the oil. “Setting yourself at me.”

“I never set myself at you,” protested Draco, sprawled naked over a table, to the man who was going to fuck him.

“Didn’t you?” Harry’s thumbs were pulling him wide, and Draco felt the blunt pressure of his erection. “You didn’t want me?” He pushed in, against the tight ring of muscle, steady and firm. “When you looked at me throughout those interminable nights, when you thought I wasn’t watching you, when you kept trying to stammer your inarticulate apologies, did I misunderstand your intentions?” He closed his hands around Draco’s hipbones and paused there, with Draco trembling in his grasp. “Have I misunderstood you now?”

“No!”

Harry rewarded him with another, deeper stroke, then stilled again. His thumbs circled on Draco’s oversensitive skin. “I’m delighted to hear it. And you never thought of this before?” He gave just the slightest push of his hips, still only halfway in, a little taunt. “Hmm?”

He pushed again. Draco’s fingers scrabbled for purchase on the smooth wood. He was utterly at Harry’s mercy, half penetrated, desperate for more, unable to brace himself. It was unbearably exciting. He took a little sobbing breath.

“I want you, Draco,” Harry said softly. “I have wanted you for a long time. And now I have you.” He clamped a hand on Draco’s shoulder and thrust.

Draco screamed, throwing his head back, careless of discretion in Harry’s capable hands. “Christ! Again.”

“My name,” Harry said through his teeth.

“Harry. Harry. Oh.”

Another relentless thrust and Harry’s hips were against Draco’s skin. He paused, breathing deeply, then began a steady rhythm, bearing down on Draco with a twisting motion that made him jerk and flail.

“I have sat at the gaming table so many nights and dreamed of pulling you over it, pushing my cock into your mouth, your hand, your arse.”

“Uuh.” Draco was beyond speech, lips pressed to the varnished wood. Harry ground into him, stretching, pleasure and pain and the pleasure of pain setting Draco’s nerves aflame. “More. All of it. Oh Jesus, Harry, I won’t last. I’m going to come, I need to—”

“Keep your hands on the table. Don’t touch yourself.”

“Please.” Draco was begging, nakedly desperate, writhing under him. “Please let me.”

“Under—no—circumstances.” Harry sounded desperate himself. “Christ, you like a good ride, don’t you? Who’s been having you when it should have been me?”

Nobody worth remembering. A stranger in Hyde Park; some fellow in a darkened molly house; occasional relief with a friend who shared his tastes. Bodies, but sturdy ones; faces, but smiling ones. Nobody with a long, lean build and a narrow stare that stripped him to his skin. Nobody he’d wanted.

Draco shook his head, and Harry took a handful of his hair, pulling his head back. “Draco. I want all of this.” His other hand gripped Draco’s thigh. “All of you, for me. I’ll make you mine.” Harry was panting, sweating, losing his rhythm, and Draco squirmed helplessly, the friction of his cock against the smooth wood so very nearly enough. “I’ll fuck you till you won’t ever need another man.”

“Anything. God. Just let me come now. Oh God, please, please.”

Harry drove into him once more, at just that perfect angle, and Draco was spending, almost painfully, wailing with the fierce pleasure, feeling Harry jerking and shuddering inside him, flooding him with heat. He flopped forward, gasping, and Harry’s head came to rest heavily on his back.

“Sweet Jesus,” Draco managed, and felt a nod against his skin.

They lay over the table for a few moments, until Harry withdrew with care and pulled Draco over to the couch, where they sprawled face to face, Draco’s bare and sweaty skin pressed against Harry’s still-clothed body, Harry’s arm round Draco’s back. He contemplated Draco’s face for a moment and then, with grave deliberation, dropped a kiss on each eyelid. “Silver-eyes.”

“So you said. Did you mean it?”

“Of course. I can show you samples—”

“Not my eyes. What you told me.” Draco felt himself flush, but he had to know. “Five years?”

Harry trailed a finger down his face. “Five extremely long years of wondering what you’d do if I suggested exactly this.”

“Why didn’t you suggest it?” Draco sounded almost plaintive to his own ears. The idea that he could have had Harry all this time was painful to contemplate.

Harry tilted a brow. “Why didn’t I make possibly unwanted sodomitical advances to the younger brother of a man with whom I have a long-standing mutual animosity?”

Right. Of course. If Draco had taken umbrage, if he’d gone to Theo and given him that weapon against Harry…He groaned. “Curse Theo. He’s such a damned nuisance.”

“I’d put it more strongly.”

“It’s not enough for him to be a bully and a brute. He has to interfere in my intimate relations as well?” Draco scowled. “Oaf.”

“True, but may I suggest we forget about him for now? I’d much rather think of you.”

Draco couldn’t argue. He wanted to hear a great deal more about Harry thinking of him. “So why did you make your sodomitical advances now?”

“I saw you in Millay’s.” Draco’s mouth dropped open. “You were letting a guardsman lead you upstairs. Which at least indicated that my, uh, instincts about you were correct, so—”

“No, wait. I was masked.” Millay’s was a house of absolute discretion, a meeting place for those of Draco’s inclinations. Everyone wore dominoes in the public rooms. The idea that anyone had identified him was appalling. So was the discovery that if he’d been in less of a hurry, Harry might have approached him. The guardsman hadn’t even been that good.

“Masked.” Harry gave him an affectionate look. “Dear Draco. As if a scrap of black silk would disguise that hair or that delectable form. The masks are, at best, a sop.”

Now that he considered the matter, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to identify Harry either. “I suppose so. But that was six months ago.”

“Indeed it was.” Harry kissed his ear. “I have been a very frustrated man.”

“Is that what last night was about?” Draco sat up slightly. “Did you plan this? To—to seduce me?”

“The word is blackmail.” Harry rubbed at his face. “And no, I did not intend it, and I’m damned ashamed of myself for suggesting it.”

“Well, I’m not,” Draco assured him, slinging a bare leg over Harry’s buckskinned ones. “It was a remarkably good idea, to my mind.”

“It was unconscionable, and so was last night. My temper got the better of me. It is really not my habit to ruin feckless young men who couldn’t play a decent hand of piquet to save their souls, and I have received some strong representations about my conduct.”

“From whom?”

“Sirius Black.” Draco blinked, unable to see why the leader of the Ricardians would give a damn for his affairs. Harry evidently saw his bewilderment. “Sirius is a very moral man. And right, damn him. I took your money out of frustration and anger and a great deal of thwarted need, and that was hardly the act of a gentleman.”

“I chose to play.”

“You did, but you are quite startlingly inept. I played at too great an advantage.”

“It was a fair game,” Draco objected. “You won.”

“It was a fair game, but not a fair contest. My intention tonight—my original intention—was to redress my error and restore your property without hurting your pride.” Harry grimaced. “I fell very short of that.”

“My pride is intact,” Draco assured him. “I can’t say the same for the rest of my anatomy.” Harry gave a quick bark of laughter. Draco had never heard him laugh before, and felt himself grinning ridiculously in response. “But about that, the winnings—”

“Firstly, I shall take grave exception if you call me a liar again. Secondly, I should be quite hurt if you gave way to my desires only to flee the country on the morrow. I hope I’m better than that.” Harry kissed his ear. “We shall say that we wagered the lot on a roll of the dice and you won. Nobody would believe it if we mentioned cards.”

“I’m not sure I should accept that.”

“I wish you will. For my reputation, if not your comfort. I should prefer not to be known as a ruiner of young men.” Draco looked down at his naked body and raised a brow meaningfully. Harry gave him a look. “You know what I mean. There is quite enough bad blood between me and your brother without adding to it.”

Draco took a deep breath. “True. Very well. I can’t deny, I’d rather not flee to the Continent. I don’t even speak French. Harry…”

“Mmm?”

“Will we do this again?”

Harry looked down at him, arm tightening. “You didn’t answer my question, you know. What do your lovers call you?”

It had tended to be Abraxas, by his friend, or Sir, by the anonymous and the paid. “By ‘lover,’ do you mean tupping?”

“Not just that, no. I mean one with whom you hope to have a long and pleasurable association. One to whom you are…special.”

“I’ve never had a lover, then.” Draco looked up into that shrewd, intelligent face, the eyes fixed on his, and plucked up his courage. “But if I did, I think he might call me Draco.”

“So do I.” Harry kissed him again. “Though I have a condition. If you are to be my lover, my Draco, I must insist that you learn to play piquet.”

Draco groaned. “Oh God, really?”

“I shall teach you.”

“I doubt you can.”

Harry tapped him on the nose. “You underestimate yourself. You do that quite often, I think.”

Draco wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was scarcely the most important question. “Will we wager on it?”

“Of course.”

“This sort of wager?”

“It’s quite possible.”

Draco clicked his tongue. “Playing with you, Mr. Potter? I fear you’ll ruin me.”

“It is my aim, and would be my privilege, to ruin you for all others for a very long time to come.”

Draco leaned into his embrace, burying his face in Harry’s shirt to hide his smile. “In that case…I hope you have a shilling.”


End file.
